""It was nothing like what he'd expected. No skulls on the walls, no dried bats, no shrunken heads. Not even any of those glass vials with smoke bubbling out of them, which is what he'd looked forward to seeing. It was just a little room that looked like a grocery store, with faded green linoleum tiles on the floor and a ceiling fan that groaned as it turned. Needs oil, he thought. Ceiling fan'll burn itself up without oil. Heating and cooling was his business, and right now he was sweating under the collar and there were wet rings beneath his arms. I've come over seven hundred miles to a grocery store with a creaking fan, he thought. God Almighty, what a fool I am!  
   "Help ya?" There was a young black man behind the counter. He wore dark glasses with white music notes on the frames, and his hair was cropped short and dyed with blue lightning bolts. He had a razor blade hanging from his left earlobe.  
   "No. Just looking," Dave Neilson said, in his flat Oklahoman accent. The dude behind the counter went back to reading his copy of Interview magazine. Dave wandered among the shelves, his heart pounding. He had never in his life felt so far from home. He picked up a bottle full of red, oily liquid: King John's Blood, the label said. Near it were bags full of white dirt that bore the labels Aunt Esther's Graveyard Dirt This Is The Real Stuff.  
  I'll bet it is, Dave thought. If that was graveyard dirt, his pecker was as big as Moby Dick. And that, of course, was the crux of the problem.  
   He'd never been to New Orleans before. Had never been to Louisiana, even. Of that he was glad; the wet August heat down here was enough to roast toadfrogs. But he liked the French Quarter all right, with its racy nightclubs and strippers who watched themselves in full-length mirrors. A man could get in trouble down here, if he had the right equipment. If he had the devil-may-care attitude. If he dared.  
   "Anythin' you lookin' for in particular, cousin?" the young black man inquired, staring at him over a photograph of Cornelia Guest.  
   "No. Looking, that's all." Dave scanned the shelves with frantic intensity, saw Lover's Tears, Hopping Fever, Uncle Teddy's Holy Bricks, Friendship Cream, and Intelligence Powder.  
   "Tourist," the young man said with a grunt.  
    Dave continued along the shelves, passing bottles and jars of such items as Lizard Gusto, Know-It-All Root, and Manteaser Drops. His eyes didn't know where to go, and neither did his feet. And then he came, abruptly, to the end of the shelves---and face-to-face with an octoroon woman who had eyes like polished copper coins.  
   "What may I sell you?" she asked, her voice like velvet smoke.  
  "I'm ... I'm just---"  
   "Tourist is lookin', Miss Fallon," the young man said. "Lookin' and lookin' and lookin'."  
"I see that, Malcolm," she answered. Her gaze remained steady, and Dave had a dumb, nervous grin on his face. "What interests you?" Miss Fallon asked him. Her hair was long and black, streaked with gray at the temples, and she wore not a robe or cloak or a voodoo costume but a pair of Guess? jeans and a bright purple African-print blouse. "Long life?" She picked up a vial and shook it before his face. "Harmony?" Another jar. "Success in business? Love secrets?" Two more vials, filled with clouds.  
  "Uh ... love secrets," he managed to say. "Right. Love secrets." He felt a fine sheen of sweat on his face. "Kind of."  
   "Kind of? What's that mean?"  
    Dave shrugged. He'd come a long way for this moment, but his nerve failed him. He stared at the green linoleum. Miss Fallon wore red Reeboks. "I ... I'd like to talk in private," he said. Still couldn't look at her. "It's important."  
  "Is it? How important?"  
  He fumbled for his wallet. Showed her a glimpse of fifty-dollar bills. "I've come a long way. From Oklahoma. I've ... got to talk to somebody who knows ... " Go on, he told himself. Get it out, once and for all. "Who knows voodoo," he said.  

Miss Fallon stared at him, and he felt like a lizard that had just crawled from beneath a rock. "Tourist wants to talk to somebody who knows voodoo," she said to Malcolm.  
  "Lord have mercy," Malcolm said, not looking up from his magazine.  
   "This is my place." Miss Fallon gestured around at the shelves. "My stuff. You want to talk to me, I'll take your money."  

"You don't look like ... I mean, you don't look ... " His tongue twisted.  
  "I only wear my warts at Mardi Gras," she said. "You want to talk, or you want to walk?"  
   
  This was the tricky part. "It's ... kind of a sensitive problem. I mean ... it's a personal matter."  

"They all are." She crooked a finger at him. "Follow me." She went through a doorway over which hung the kind of purple beaded curtain Dave hadn't seen since he was a Hendrix freak in college. That seemed like a hundred years ago, and the world seemed a lot older. Meaner, too. He went through the curtain of beads, and heard memories in their soft clicking. Miss Fallon sat down, not at a round table on which were spread various potions and dried mysteries, but behind a regular wooden desk that looked as if it belonged to a banker. A little sign said: Today Is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life. "Okay," she said, and laced her fingers together. Just your everyday friendly neighborhood voodoo doctor, Dave thought. "What's your problem?"  

He unzipped his pants, and showed her.  
  There was a long moment of silence.  
  Miss Fallon cleared her throat. She slid a drawer open and laid a knife atop her desk, "The last fella who tried this with me," she said calmly, "wound up shorter. By a head."  

"No! That's not what I'm here for!" His face reddened, and he pushed himself back in and hurriedly zipped up---and caught a piece of skin in the zipper. He made a face and hopped around a few times, trying to shake loose without ripping skin. God knows he didn't need to lose any precious flesh from down there!  

"You a maniac," she asked, "or you always show your doodle to ladies and jump around like a one-legged grasshopper on a hot skillet?"  

"Wait. One minute. Please. Ouch ... ouch ... ouch!" He got himself unzippered, and everything back in its proper place. "Sorry." Sweat was dripping under his arms, and he thought he might just pass out and give up the ghost right here and now. Miss Fallon was still watching him with those burning copper eyes. "My problem is ... you know. You saw it."  

"I saw a man's thang." Miss Fallon said it with a Southern drawl. "So what?"  

And here, he felt sure, was the turning point of his life. "That's what I mean!" Dave leaned over her desk, and Miss Fallon's chair skreeked back. "I'm not ... you know ... I'm not big enough!"  
  "Big enough," she repeated carefully, as if listening to a retarded fool.  

"Right! I want to be bigger than I am. I want to be ... really big. I mean big! Like ten, eleven ... twelve inches, even! I want to be so big it makes my pants bulge! You see what I'm talking about?"  

"I see. I don't care for it, but I see."  
   "All my life," Dave said, his face flushed with the excitement of finding a confidant, "I've been little down there. These things matter to a guy! If you don't feel you measure up, then everything's lousy! I've tried all those things in the magazines---"  
   "What thangs?" she interrupted."  

    Read on, or perhaps your imagination realizes bigger is better.  
                 http://www.robertmccammon.com/fiction/thang.htm